


Unlucky Us

by Onyx_and_Elm



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Banter, Car Sex, Character Death, Consensual Non-Consent, Dark Ben Solo, Death, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Bonding, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, POV Rey (Star Wars), Road Trips, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Snark, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyx_and_Elm/pseuds/Onyx_and_Elm
Summary: This time last week, Ben Solo was the furthest thing from Rey’s mind.But she owes Leia everything. And if Leia can’t stand the thought of Han’s remains flying back to her — can’t stand the thought of him ever going up into the air again — then Rey won’t let that happen.Even if it means driving across the country with the man she hates the most.Even then.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	Unlucky Us

The worst part about this is that it's all so painfully fucking avoidable.

None of this would have to happen if Leia could learn to put her foot down — _ever_ — when it comes to her son. It doesn't help that she’s so good at putting it down when it comes to everything else. 

None of this would have to happen if Rey still had her license, and she’d _definitely_ still have her license if Ben Solo somehow miraculously ceased to exist.

And absolutely none of this would have to happen if Han wasn't — _wasn't_ — past tense, and god if that doesn’t make her throat swell until it’s hard to breathe…but it wouldn't have to happen if Han wasn’t _Han._ The way he is — _was_ — about everything. 

And now he's nothing. A body in a box. What’s left of it. What they could _find._

And soon he’ll just be ashes.

Rey's gotten sick twice this morning just thinking about it, and she's normally so proud of her strong stomach. The nerves don't help. Because she's not just dealing with the death of the most important person in the world to her, here — she’s also insanely fucking nervous. 

Up until this point, Ben Solo was able to rot his way through her life as nothing more than a name. No face to it — there are no pictures of him in Leia’s house, at least not out in the open. Han never showed her the one she knows he kept tucked in his wallet. No, Rey has no idea what he looks like. But from everything she's heard — everything she knows after growing up in his absence, after filling up his space — it's pretty easy for her to picture him.

She sits on the curb in front of Ilum County Mortuary, watching the cab pull in and picturing as many sweat-stained, beer-gutted, dead-eyed brutes as her imagination can churn up. She'll have to keep the window rolled down the whole way, she thinks, if he smells as bad as she thinks he will and they're forced to share a confined space. Drunks and ex-cons smell, right? Like bad habits.

She hopes he’s as ugly as his history. 

Except, in retrospect, she should’ve been considering the source. Han and Leia — both far too good-looking to produce anything but. She should’ve known he’d step out of that cab with Han’s stature and Leia’s eyes.

But Rey’s too busy thinking about the possibility of prison tats and maybe even _possibly_ some fangs. 

Which is why she’s so unprepared when the real Ben Solo slams the cab door. Her hand slips where it’s propped on the curb and scrapes across the rough asphalt, tearing open.

“Bleeding _fuck!”_ she hisses, immediately bringing the shredded flesh to her mouth. It’s the first two words she’s ever said to him.

Because Ben Solo is not a bald, grotesque, sweaty man, as he should be. He is — 

Well, he’s absurdly easy on the eyes. Inky black hair falling low over dark brows. An equally dark gaze, rimmed by lashes so thick any woman would be jealous. A strangely disarming and prominent nose. And lips — his lips are a big problem. 

To make matters worse, he’s also enormous. 

She can’t help but let her eyes trace the length of him as she sucks the blood from her palm. Well over six feet. Shoulders like a mountain range. Body like a freight train. A simple black t-shirt and jeans has never been so _not_ simple.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He stops in front of her at the curb as the cab pulls away, a duffel bag hanging at his side. 

“Normally how you say hello?” he asks, and his voice is way too low. Way, way, _way_ too low — rich and layered and momentarily disorienting. 

Rey feels the sudden urge to slap herself. Forces her brain to flood with the memories of everything he’s done to his family and — by the transitive property — to her. The sudden burst of indignation goes straight to her knees, helping her to her feet. 

She narrows her eyes at him. Turns her head to spit the blood out onto the concrete, but when he says, “Nice,” in a dry, mocking tone she sort of wishes she’d aimed for his face. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she grates out, despite being suddenly conscious of their size difference. The ridiculous amount of feet separating the top of her head from his.

His face is impassive. Blank. “Your eyes are swollen,” is all he says. 

It throws her off, and for a moment she can’t help but open and close her mouth like a fish, staring up at him. “I’ve been _crying—”_

“Why?” He cocks his head to the side, just slightly. His face is still expressionless. 

Rey gestures incredulously at the doors to the mortuary behind her. 

Ben only shrugs. “I’m his son. Not you. Why are _you_ crying?” 

His coldness is like a brick to the face. She splutters again, blood starting to simmer. “Because I’m _upset._ I’m — I’m _horrified._ Because — because he deserves to have _someone_ cry for him.” 

“Waste of time,” Ben says flatly. 

_Jesus Christ._ Less than a minute into meeting him and she’s already seething. 

“It shouldn’t be you,” she growls. “It should be literally anyone _but_ you.”

Ben blinks slowly at her, the way someone blinks at a stupid person. “Leia wants it done this way.”

Leia. _Leia._ Of course he doesn’t call her ‘mom.’ 

Rey swallows back something particularly vicious, opting instead to repeat, “You shouldn’t be—”

He cuts her off like a sharp knife. “No, _you_ shouldn’t be here.” And he leans down over her, drawing more attention to his size — making her feel small — his eyes suddenly blazing. “You’re not _real_ family. You can’t even legally accept the remains. What right do _you_ have to be here?”

The rage that blossoms in her chest has her speaking through gritted teeth. She goes his route. “Leia wants me here.”

“Yeah. Unlucky me,” he hisses, and before she can think up a sufficiently biting response he’s shoving past her. He throws open the mortuary door so hard it smacks against the adjacent wall. “Let’s get this over with.”

Rey stares after him, breathing hard, hands gathered into bloodless fists. 

She suddenly doesn’t know if she can do this. Suddenly finds herself impossibly angry at Leia and her wishes.

All her life, she’s trusted that woman. Idolized her. She’d — she’d do _anything_ for Leia. Especially after everything Leia’s done for her. 

But this? Why did she have to want this?

Leia — always so reasonable and forward-thinking — somehow thinks it’s a good idea to force her disgraced son and his goddamned _replacement_ into the same car for three days. 

This time last week, that would’ve been a fever dream.

This time last week, Han’s stunt plane hadn’t exploded at 31,000 feet. Hadn’t plummeted down into the unforgiving cold of the Atlantic. 

This time last week, they weren't planning funerals.

This time last week, Ben Solo was the furthest thing from Rey’s mind.

But she owes Leia everything. And if Leia can’t stand the thought of Han’s remains flying back to her — can’t stand the thought of him ever going up into the air again — then Rey won’t let that happen. 

Even if it means driving across the country with the man she hates the most.

Even then.

Digging her fingernails into her palms, Rey sets her jaw and follows Ben into the mortuary. 

“Unlucky _us,”_ she corrects darkly under her breath. “Unlucky us.”


End file.
